


all that matters is the light in you and i

by clasch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Benny Lafitte Lives, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27103951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clasch/pseuds/clasch
Summary: Hello, Dean. Been awhile. The rumors of my early demise have been greatly exaggerated. I’m topside again. And a little birdy told me you went and picked a fight with God. You sure know how to pick ‘em. But like my old man used to say: God is nothing but dog spelled backwards. And I ain’t never seen a dogfight that you couldn’t win. Go give ‘em hell, brother. I miss you, buddy.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	all that matters is the light in you and i

**Author's Note:**

> title from [wide open sky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYcLxGaEMkY) by the well pennies.
> 
> based on [that ty olsson cameo](https://twitter.com/Capt_FrightNite/status/1307868927955935233) because it will live rent free in my mind forever. summary is a transcript of the video.

Since it happened, Dean’s been having trouble sleeping. It doesn’t make much sense, really, since everything is over now. There’s no Chuck anymore, just a bunch of humans trying to figure out what the hell happens next. Maybe nothing, maybe everything, but probably _anything,_ which could be why he can’t sleep.

Dean takes to wandering around the Bunker at night when the walls of his room start closing in. He and Sam explored when they moved in here, a little, enough to find the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen. Then there were the storerooms and the dungeon and the server room. But the place is friggin’ huge and they just never got around to it, or they never had the chance to get around to it.

One of those nights, Dean’s coming back through the library. He just discovered the attic, which you can only get to by climbing up about a million stairs, with the added bonus of having to go back down them too. But all the stairs wore him out, so that’s okay. Maybe he’ll actually catch a few hours of bone-tired shut-eye, then Sam can have a field day sorting through all the shit up there tomorrow.

He almost doesn’t notice the message light blinking on one of the old phones they’ve got charging all the time in, what Jack calls, the Bridge. (The kid just discovered that there’s about a million versions and episodes of Star Trek). It’s really just a table and chair with an extension cord and all their old phones (and some of Bobby’s) in the back corner of the library. No one’s been back here in a while, or at least Dean hasn’t. They haven’t had any reason to. Things have calmed down, way down, since it happened.

The phone that’s blinking isn’t labeled, and he doesn’t recognize the number that pops up in the missed calls log from a few weeks ago. Still, might as well listen to the voicemail while he’s here.

_“Hello, Dean,”_ Benny says, and the phone slips out of Dean’s hand and cracks against the floor.

“ _Fuck!”_ Dean grabs for it, praying to nothing, to everything, that it isn’t broken. His hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops the phone again. The screen is shattered in one corner, cracks spider webbing out from there, and he feels it nick his cheek just next to his ear. But Benny’s voice is still playing from the speaker, rich and low, lower than Dean remembers. 

_“- picked a fight with God -”_

Dean starts the message over with trembling fingers. This is a trick. It has to be. A shapeshifter that’s still running around, or a crocotta maybe, hell, even a siren. Or it’s just Dean hallucinating from lack of sleep. It isn’t real because it can’t be. Because this is just the brand of fucked up figment that comes from Dean’s fucked up imagination.

_“Hello, Dean. Been a while. The rumors of my early demise have been greatly exaggerated.”_

He thinks of Purgatory and that Leviathan. His heart dropping like a stone and the ticking clock that left him with no time to breathe, let alone grieve, for days, for weeks, until it was over and that was the only thing left to do.

_“I ain’t never seen a dogfight you couldn’t win. Go give ‘em hell, brother. I miss you buddy.”_

The message ends, but all Dean can hear is “I’m topside again” on a loop, the low rumble of Benny’s chuckle.

“I’m sleepwalking,” Dean says to nobody, to the empty library in the middle of the night. “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.” His voice shakes as badly as his hands as he presses redial. He scrubs a hand down his face as it rings, and realizes he’s crying. “It’s gonna ring out,” he whispers, not knowing if he wants it to or not, not knowing which would hurt less.

“Hey, chief.”

***

Dean is nearly to Wichita by the time he realizes he’s not wearing any shoes. He’s never driven barefoot before in his life (it would be an insult to Baby, to all other cars, and to every human with sense), but hell if he didn’t tear out of the bunker like someone lit a fire under his ass.

Benny, what might be Benny, what’s probably Benny, is driving up from New Orleans to meet him outside of Fort Worth. Eight hours on the road, three of them gone already and he’s just now realizing he’s in his socks. The sun is peeking out over the horizon, painting the sky in pinks and oranges and golds as he flies along the highway that’s nearly empty this early in the morning. Dean Winchester will drive without shoes on when Hell freezes over, he thinks wildly and laughs out of his open window.

Sam calls an hour or so later, after Dean has gone through a drive-thru for coffee that he hasn’t touched. He’s running on no sleep, but he’s wired and shaky as it is. The coffee that’s turning tepid perched between his knees would probably make things worse.

“Where are you?” Sam says by way of a greeting.

“Just crossed into Oklahoma.”

“What - _Oklahoma?_ Dean, what the hell?”

Dean zips by an eighteen-wheeler. There are more cars out on the road now, but it’s still mostly just open road. Four hours of open road between him and Benny. Less if traffic stays like this.

“We woke up and you were _gone,_ Dean. Why are you going to Oklahoma?”

“Not going to Oklahoma, Sammy.” Dean puts the call on speaker and tosses his phone onto the bench seat so he can drum his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s buzzing with energy or nerves or both. “Do you know, are there any shoes in the trunk?”

_“Shoes?”_ He can just _hear_ Sam pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Dean. Where are you going?”

“Fort Worth.”

“What’s in Fort Worth? You catch a case or something?”

Dean is quiet for a moment, passing another eighteen-wheeler. If he tells Sam he’s hauling six hundred miles worth of ass because something that probably isn’t but might be Benny left him a voicemail three weeks ago, they’ll fight. “You won’t like it.”

“Dean, you better tell me what the hell is going on. Right now. You think I don’t know something’s up with you?”

“It’s -” Dean sighs, lifts his eyes to the sky that’s brightening into clear blue, sunny and cloudless as far as he can see. “Look, Sam -”

“Don’t ‘look, Sam’ me - “

“Fine, okay,” Dean says. Lukewarm coffee sloshes over the lid of the coffee cup perched between his knees. “It’s Benny.”

On the other end of the line, Sam is quiet. “Dean,” he says quietly, and there’s pity there. “You know Benny’s - I mean, it’s been years.”

“I know.” Dean steps on the gas, like it will speed this conversation up. “Man, I know, okay? He - I got a call, a voicemail, a few weeks ago, but I didn’t see it until last night with...you know. Everything. I’m not stupid, Sam. I’ll be careful, but I can’t - I have to -” He bites at his lip, thinking of a brightly-painted alley, of a forest in Maine at night, of an unmarked grave. He thinks of scrubbing blood out of the trunk, and of biting into his lip so hard new blood mingles with what he’s trying to scrub out. Of cranking up the radio loud enough that it echoed through the garage and he could choke out a sob without Sam hearing. “I just need to see if it’s him.”

“Okay,” Sam says finally. “Okay, but Dean, let me meet you there. Or Cas. You shouldn’t be alone, you know, in case…”

In case it isn’t Benny. In case it’s some monster, or some other monster, or the monster is actually Dean’s lack of sleep or his grief, or it’s just him and he’s finally cracked. “No,” Dean says. “I mean it, Sam, no. I need to see if it’s him, and I need to do it on my own.”

“Dean -”

“I’ll call you, if - I’ll call you.” Dean reaches over and hangs up before Sam can protest anymore.

***

They don’t end up meeting in Fort Worth. Having too many people around makes Dean itchy under his skin, in his bones, and Fort Worth is crawling with them. They end up meeting in _Crowley_ , of all places, just outside of it anyway.

Dean gets there first, probably because he took the last hundred miles at least twenty over. There aren’t any shoes in the trunk after all, so he just stands there in his socks on the side of a dusty road, fiddling with the silver knife and the flask of holy water, leaning against the hood, then the trunk, then the driver’s side door, then sliding back behind the wheel. He realizes too late that he’s tracking dirt onto the floor and gets back out. He pours the rest of his untouched coffee out into the grass.

A crappy old truck pulls up after twenty minutes or so, not as crappy as the one Benny used to drive, but crappy and old all the same.

And there’s Benny, who smiles slow and bright as he approaches. He’s got his cap pulled down low over his eyes, but they’re alight with _life._ “Hey, brother,” Benny says, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“You know I’ve gotta -” Dean’s voice shakes and he swallows, gesturing with the flask.

“I know.”

Except then Dean actually has to do it, has to walk over to Benny and hold his arm steady while he -

“Dean,” Benny says, reaching towards him. He almost takes Dean’s hand to steady it but stops just short, which is probably for the best. If maybe-not-Benny were to touch him now, Dean might shatter.

"Okay." Dean watches as if from outside his own body as the silver knife slices a thin gash in Benny's forearm and a splash of holy water washes away the blood that wells up there. "Benny?" he says, heart cracking open with something like grief or relief or longing.

Benny steps forward again, but Dean puts a hand up. "My turn," he says. The cut on his arm stings in the dry air, a bead of blood dripping onto his sock.

And then it doesn't matter because Benny is taking him into his arms and it's just like Dean remembers. Benny smells like something long-forgotten, something newly remembered. Dean can feel Benny's breath on the side of his neck, the too-slow beat of Benny’s heart against his chest, where his own pulse is racing. He pulls away first, keeping a grip on Benny's shoulder to anchor himself. "How -" he starts, shaking his head.

"Where are your shoes, chief?" Benny says with a laugh and thumbs a tear from Dean’s cheek, lets his hand linger there, solid and warm in the sunlight. “And what happened here?” He runs a finger over the cut Dean had completely forgotten about in his mad rush out of the Bunker last night. Early this morning. Whatever.

Dean just shakes his head against Benny’s hand, unable to get the words out. _I dropped everything and ran. I can’t believe you’re real. I missed you. I need you. I -_

“How are you here?” he says instead, lifting a shaking hand to grip Benny’s wrist before he loses his nerve.

Benny shrugs and strokes over the shell of Dean’s ear with the pad of his thumb, which makes Dean go a little weak at the knees. “Figure it’s because of the big fight. I ain’t complaining, though.” He looks Dean square in the face, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I missed you, brother.”

“Yeah?” Dean lets his breath out in a rush.

“Yeah.”

Dean rocks forward, just a little. Just enough to tip his forehead against Benny’s, nudging that stupid beautiful newsboy cap off to the side. He’s still holding onto Benny’s wrist, but he slides his other hand to curl into the short hair at the nape of Benny’s neck. He lets his eyes close. This is safe. Here, he’s safe and grounded, missed and forgiven and _loved._ Benny breathes slow and even, and Dean finally does too. In, out. In, out. Dean opens his eyes to see Benny gazing at him, full of wonder.

“I wasn’t sure if - it’s been a long time,” Benny says, choosing his words carefully, staying firmly in Dean’s space. Or maybe it’s Dean, crowding up against him, unwilling to let go for fear of waking up or floating away entirely.

“Too long,” Dean says. “Too damn long.” His gaze flicks to Benny’s mouth like it has a hundred times before, a thousand, too many times to count, really. Except it feels new. It feels tenuous and fragile with all the time lost between them.

Benny moves in slowly, brushing Dean’s nose with his own, stopping when they’re only a breath apart for one agonizing moment. He runs his thumb up and over the cut on Dean’s cheek, his ear, and Dean shakes from the tenderness of it. “Je t’aime, cher,” Benny whispers into the space between them.

They meet in the middle and it’s gentle and sweet and everything Dean remembered, except _better_ because God is dead and they can have this for the rest of their lives, if they want. They can have this, and this, and this, and Dean breaks away with a laugh even as Benny wipes another tear from his cheek. “I love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world because here, now, standing in his stupid socks in a patch of gravel on the side of a road outside Crowley, Texas with their future, his and Benny’s, as wide open as the bright blue sky stretching out above them, it is.

**Author's Note:**

> let them be soft and in love!!!
> 
> rebloggable tumblr link [here!](https://spooky-things-do-happen-dean.tumblr.com/post/632007780736335872/all-that-matters-is-the-light-in-you-and-i-denny)


End file.
